


Turning Memory to Bread

by Dulcinea



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: "Sometimes the items she used in her day-to-day life reminded Coquille of the cooking equipment her father housed in the basement back on Brench..." Part of the 'Walk In Another Direction' universe.





	Turning Memory to Bread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thesaurus_with_no_words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesaurus_with_no_words/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Walk in another direction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690523) by [Thesaurus_with_no_words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesaurus_with_no_words/pseuds/Thesaurus_with_no_words). 



> Second DBZ fic ever and it's in someone else's universe. Talk about intimidating, lol.

Sometimes the items she used in her day-to-day life reminded Coquille of the cooking equipment her father housed in the basement back on Brench. She turned the scalpel in her hand, rubbing a thumb on the handle’s corner. Her dad cut bread, spread butter on pastries and delighted children’s faces, including her own, with sweet delights. She cut organs, spread ointment or gauze over cuts and wounds. And generally pissed off people, much to her own delight.

“You better not kill me.”

She glared down at the sixteen-year-old Saiyan Prince beneath her, who glared right back at her. “I won’t if you don’t fuck my work up while you’re under.” 

“How would I?”

“You’d find a way.”

“Tch." Her assistant fastened his gas mask on and Vegeta muttered some guttural word, most likely in his native language. “You’re lucky I tolerate you, Coquille,” he said.

She tapped the end of the scalpel against his forearm. “And you’re lucky I tolerate _you_ , my Prince.”

He said nothing else, the sounds of the heart monitor taking over as he shut his eyes, the anesthesia kicking in. Across the room, wary stares directed at her turned the other way, while the others glared at her, as if saying, _What the fucking hell are you doing agitating him?_ She rolled her eyes. This sixteen-year-old wouldn’t do anything to her, not when she was the most qualified doctor with the Saiyan Coalition. Vegeta _could_ do something, and she couldn’t do anything, but he wouldn’t. The one thing she could bet on aside from Vegeta’s insanity—his pragmatism. And goodness knew that when the two came at odds, the pragmatism always won out, no matter what the outsiders thought.

The surgery didn’t take long. Whatever steel weapon Frieza’s men tried to kill Vegeta with this time around wasn’t enough to take the Saiyan Prince out. One little stop in the tanks and he’d be fine. With her work done and her orders sent to her assistants, she headed back to her private rooms to shut down her mind and finally, _finally_ , get this project done. 

Coquille entered her private quarters and zoomed right to her small kitchen. She pulled out a large bowl full of risen dough with a small smile on her face. 

***

She turned around and slammed the large bowl in front of a nineteen-year-old Vegeta, who stared at it with a raised eyebrow and a frown. “The hell is this?”

“Your recreation for the day, your Highness.”

“This…” He poked at it and frowned deeper. “Putty?”

“Dough.”

He blinked. “Dough?” And snarled. “You’re making me _bake?_ ”

She counted off on her hand: “Your father, of all people, said you needed a break, Raditz is in the tanks after his bullshit of an idea to fight you, no one else wants to even _try_ to spar with you, and you need to do something that isn’t sitting in front of a screen or on your ass in general. Besides.” She slammed a hand into the dough and gave it a squeeze. “You get to tear things apart still. Just without the blood.”

He smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.” 

***

Twenty-year-old Prince Vegeta pulled a finished, steaming hot piece of bread from the oven – his hands covered with oven mitts this time. He clearly learned from the last time he attempted baking. Saiyan genes or not, a hot oven will still scald your hands. 

He placed the pan in front of Coquille and crossed his arms. 

She gave it a once-over, looking from side to side.

Vegeta huffed. 

Coquille came to his side and peered even closer at the bread loaf. 

He tapped his index finger against his forearm. 

She peered _even_ closer – and felt his glare laser in right against the back of her neck. 

He hissed, “Well?”

“Hm…” Coquille pulled away, crossing her arms too. “It’s been a few seconds, the top hasn’t caved in, and it doesn’t smell burnt.” She reached for a knife and slid it across the top a few times. A crunch ricocheted off the metal. “Good sound too.” She glanced beside her. “We really should give them about five minutes to cool, but I know you are not the patient type. So…”

She raised the knife from the kitchen table. 

His finger stopped tapping and all five fingers, this time, gripped his forearm tightly. 

She swallowed her chuckle – imagine, the Prince of All Saiyans, actually _caring_ about a loaf of _bread_ – and sliced the sharp knife in twice. Two slices of crusty bread fell on the pan and she used a spatula to slide them onto two plates. 

Vegeta didn’t touch his plate. 

Coquille bit into her piece of bread once. Twice. 

Around the next few bites, she muttered, “Hmm…”

Vegeta’s fingers bruised deeper into his forearm. 

Her swallow sounded loud in the silence of the room. 

More silence.

She almost, almost, cackled, when Vegeta growled, “Well?”

If she wasn’t sure Vegeta would blow up her room, she would’ve drawn out her silence more. Instead, she turned to him, picked the piece of bread off the plate and shoved the rest of it into her mouth. 

Vegeta gaped, half disgusted at her display, half… surprised. 

Once she swallowed, she said, “Good enough.”

***

“ONLY good enough?” Twenty-three year old Prince Vegeta glared at her from across the table of Coquille’s private quarters, a small assorted tray of freshly baked breads between them. “Still?”

“Yup. It’s better, don’t get me wrong, but you still got more to learn, and practicing baking only once every few years makes you rusty.”

“We all don’t have such luxury of free time, Coquille.”

“Then what is this, Prince?”

“A King-imposed, mandatory break.”

Coquille smirked. “Still?”

“Feh.” He picked up a sweet roll, dipping it in melted butter. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.” 

“Oh please. Who’s the doctor around here? You’re lucky I don’t kill _you._ ”

The look on Vegeta’s face was almost worth the invitation of death she gave herself. She waited for the tirade of _how dare you threaten the great Prince of All Saiyans_ , the destruction of her room, of herself – but as she expected, Vegeta responded with a smirk, a snort and a swig of his mug of tea. 

“Touche, Coquille.” 

*** 

The mandatory breaks were nice. Welcomed. It broke the monotony of the medical room, gave her a little taste of home, when her father fussed around the oven, spilled eggs and flour everywhere and sometimes forgot how long the breads were in and out came blackened loafs. 

But they lessened and lessened over the years. Vegeta got busier, much busier, and Coquille dealt with more broken bodies and broken bones and bloodied corpses. Baking became the luxury she couldn’t even attempt to afford, while Vegeta’s went all non-existent. 

Those days seemed simple, almost easier, if not benign. Now there was more to do, and more was happening – like Vegeta and that mate of his now – and she couldn’t be bothered with being reminded of Brench, of her father and his baking, of anything like that. 

But then Vegeta’s mate came in one day, looking broken and lost and gone thanks to the joys of pre-partum depression, and she had to try one more time during his next visit. For medical reasons. 

“Here.”

“Huh?” Kakarot looked at the warm napkin-wrapped item shoved into his palms. “What…?” He unwrapped it with shaky fingers, and his eyes lit up – the first she had seen in a while.

“It’s called _pandecamp._ You can eat it with jam or butter. It’s supposed to go with a jam but, eh. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

He turned the _pandecamp_ around in his hand, gazing at it like a fascinated little kid. Which was how Coquille considered Vegeta’s mate. A goddamn kid. What he was doing mating a nineteen-year-old, she’d never understand.

In a few seconds, that small morsel and the entire _pandecamp_ was gone in typical Saiyan fashion. “Ahhh! That was delicious! Where did you get this? I’ve never seen it—”

“Made it.”

Kakarot lit up even more somehow. “You cooked it?”

“Baked. Yes. I bake.”

“Do you have anymore?!”

“You can get more if you adhere to your changes, stick to your vitamins and make sure Vegeta stays in line too.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” He leapt up from his seat and wrapped his burly arms around her, squeezing her tight. “Thank you so much, Coquille!” 

She allowed herself to smile – the tiniest of smiles – as she patted Kakarot’s back with one awkward arm. 

A pattern followed the next following weeks, with Kakarot padding over his pregnant body to her chambers for tea and _pandecamp_ and other types of Brench delicacies that she could remember from her father. All the while, Raditz held guard outside her room, much to his annoyance. She didn’t care. Her chambers, her rules, and she wasn’t about to let two Saiyans inside her cramped space. 

Each time the Prince Consort came over, she pushed back allowing Kakarot to bake with her. Despite learning he was the strongest fighter of all the Saiyans, he seemed like a total klutz. So she opted to let Kakarot watch her bake while he babbled on about his day, what he was learning from Tarble, what Vegeta was doing, what gossip he heard around Base One – and she felt utter relief when Kakarot shouted one day ‘I’m gonna be a daddy!’ 

She should’ve stopped then, when he finally felt OK with his pregnancy. But she didn’t. She let Kakarot keep coming over for talks and tea and _pandecamp_ and _marope_ and _brieyer_. The food and talks seemed to help him recover in his pre-partum depression, and she wasn’t about to stop now that he looked forward to meeting his baby. Better to be safe than sorry. 

It was why she didn’t bother looking over her shoulder one day when she heard a knock on the door. She continued kneading dough as she yelled, “It’s open!” The door creaked, and she stopped her vigorous work, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her forearm. “I’m surprised, Kakarot. You’re early for once.”

“Try again.”

She whipped around. 

Vegeta stood a few feet away from the door. In his gloved hands, he held a worn, dusty yellow book, its edges torn, the binding coming undone. 

Coquille grabbed the rag on her kitchen counter, wiping her hands of flour. “He tell you about this?”

“Raditz.”

“That chatty bitch.”

Vegeta snorted. He approached the kitchen table with that book, resting it next to her utensils. “I found Kakarot researching on my tablet for something like this. Since he doesn’t have permission to go outside to bazaars, I got it for him.” 

She pulled the book closer to her. Whatever writing had been on front was gone, blasted away by some sort of fire. Her fingers wrapped around the book’s edge and she flipped it open. 

The front page inside had some scorch marks too. But the words. They were there. Right there. 

Her vision blurred. 

_THE BRENCH MACHINE: 101 WAYS ON HOW TO BAKE LIKE A BRENCH PRO_

She looked up, only to find Vegeta turned away, his cape billowing behind him. 

“Vegeta!” 

He stopped the middle of her doorway and glanced over his shoulder—and ended up turning all the way around to catch the piece of freshly made _pandecamp_ in both of his hands. 

Coquille smiled. “You’re welcome.” That smile turned into a smirk. “But that’s all for Kakarot. You have to come back and make your own.”

Vegeta smirked back and closed the door behind him. 

*** 

Almost a year later, during a routine check-up and vaccination shots with the little three-year-old Saiyan prince who looked all like Kakarot and a smidgen of Vegeta, Coquille got a question she wasn’t expecting. 

“How did you get into baking, Miss Coquille?” 

She looked right into the innocent eyes of Gohan, who munched around a small piece of _pandecamp_ waiting for his answer. Three-years-old, and asking questions like that. She overheard that Tarble, the Prince’s brother, swore his development was high for a child at that age, and she could see why. 

Coquille glanced back at Kakarot and Vegeta. The Prince Consort seemed interested, almost excited, to know her story. 

But Vegeta… there was no read on Vegeta. Per usual, but this time, she needed something. She needed to know it was okay, because as much as it was her story to tell, it was also Vegeta’s too—

Her eyebrows rose when Vegeta nodded. 

“Miss Coquille?” 

Coquille glanced back at Gohan. “A long time ago, when I was a kid. A little older than you are now, on a planet called Brench.” 

“Where is that?”

“Nowhere. It’s gone now.” 

Gohan frowned – and in that frown, he looked exactly like his father. “Frieza?” 

She chuckled. “Yeah.” She unraveled Gohan’s shirt sleeve, returning it back to its natural state around his wrist. “My dad used to be a baker. A really good one. But being a baker didn’t save him from the war that came to our planet. It was a big battle and your dad fought in it after he escaped from a really bad situation, but it didn’t go quite well. Hell, your dad was almost as good as dead.” She sat beside him on her bench when Gohan became terrified. “But I was a nurse at the time and while other people didn’t… well, they weren’t sure it was worth saving your dad. I did though. He was only fifteen years old, pretty much a kid. I had to save him. Ending up having to regrow half of his internal organs, but he came out okay in the end. Clearly, because he’s still here, right Vegeta?”

She glanced back behind her, where a sad-looking Prince Consort and a neutral-looking Prince sat side by side. While more than likely used to the war and hearing about tales of planets lost, Kakarot looked _devastated_ learning all of this – more than likely due to his pregnancy hormones coursing through him via child number two. 

When a few tears shed down his cheek, Coquille resisted a sigh. Thoughts of broken down Kakarot, an ignorant Vegeta, all the problems before... 

And then Vegeta brushed the back of his hand against Kakarot’s forearm in comfort, almost lingering his fingertips on his mate’s skin.

She stopped herself short from smiling, lest she tip the Prince otherwise. 

Coquille looked back at Gohan and picked a small morsel of _pandecamp_ from him. “That’s why I bake. Reminds me of home and all.” She popped it into her mouth and said as she chewed, “And that’s why I share them too, because I don’t want or need to get fat eating all these baked goods.”

Gohan smiled. “Thank you for making these, Miss Coquille.”

“You’re welcome, Prince Gohan.”

She allowed Kakarot to give her a big hug before the little Royal Family left her office. And as Vegeta trailed behind them, he gave Coquille a look – one she could easily discern, one that said all Vegeta needed to say because those words of apology for failing her and her planet would never see the light of day. 

Coquille answered back by throwing one of the last small pieces of _pandecamp_ into his face. She closed the door before he could respond. 

Half an hour later, with her last pieces of paperwork for the day done, she picked up the repaired yellow recipe book from underneath her desk, tucked it into her side and left for her chambers. Maybe today would be the day she tried recreating _feumille..._

**Author's Note:**

> MUCH LOVE TO THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR OF THIS GREAT UNIVERSE OF A FIC. If you haven't read it, give yourself a few hours in the day to sink your teeth into it and enjoy. I've got two more side stories for this universe planned, and hopefully they come out OK. Because I love her fic and I want to give her characters justice. Also I love writing Vegeta, kthx.


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